


Imagining Things

by quartetship



Series: ADS Side Pieces [4]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Fantasy, M/M, Masturbation, Not necessarily compliant with ADS canon, Side Pieces: A Different Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3758650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartetship/pseuds/quartetship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But I'm probably just imagining things..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imagining Things

**Author's Note:**

> ADS!Marco letting his mind wander.
> 
> (Set in the same universe as 'A Different Song', although not necessarily compliant with its canon. Most likely set in early spring.)
> 
> A gift for twitter/tumblr user [boysblush](twitter.com/boysblush)
> 
> \--

I'm not a huge fan of sports.   
  
I mean, I like the  _idea_  of them just fine. Teamwork, cooperation, fun - people trashing entire cities when their teams don't win, or sometimes even when they do. It's great if you're into that kinda thing. But it's just not really for me.   
  
 _Athletes_  are kind of a different story. Those, I'm kind of a fan of. Call it a guilty pleasure. Guys in football pads, jerseys, baseball pants - now that's something worth turning up for. And my roommate is a  _frustratingly_  good example.   
  
The thing with Jean is, he doesn't really have to go out of his way to look good in his uniform. Really, Jean doesn't seem like he goes out of his way to do a whole lot of anything when he's on the field; it just seems like second nature to the guy. I would know - I go to almost every game.   
  
I try to be a good friend, y'know? Supportive classmate, cheering for the home team - even when I have no idea what's going on half the time. But Jean, erm...  _makes it hard._  To focus, I mean. So when the day's game comes to an end and he waves me down, asking me to stick around until he finishes dressing back out, I'm glad to. (And glad that I'll have time to cool down before I see him.)  
  
It doesn't help much, though. I meet him at the entrance to the locker room, just where he asked me to, and I'm so caught up in conversation - and the way he looks in his damned jersey - that it doesn't even strike me as odd that he's still dressed, even as the rest of the team and staff head out in plain clothes. We wait them out, and then Jean gives me a smirk that makes my stomach flip into my chest, and nods backward toward the now-vacant locker room.   
  
I follow him without much persuading, too busy staring at him to think better of it. He plucks a discarded bat from its place propped against the wall, toying with it as we make our way into the warm, dimly lit room. It smells like grass and sweat and too much cologne, but it's fine; Jean's here. And it's even  _more_  tolerable as he peels off his jersey and undershirt, smiling wickedly over his shoulder as he unbuckles his belt and gives me a brief but glorious view of his  _gorgeous_  ass in those grass-stained uniform pants.   
  
He turns around to face me again, his smug grin almost as wide as the spread of his arms as they stretch over the bat perched on his shoulders. His eyes set the skin of my face on fire, even as mine trail down the hard lines of his abs and hips, stuttering to a stop at the unbuttoned fly of his pants. They're slung low, barely hanging onto his hips as he shifts to one side, his legs tugging the pants open further, sliding them down until I can see what I  _know_  he wants me to.   
  
The gorgeous trail of dark hair that runs down from his navel highlights the spread of his open pants, framing the several inches of his thick, perfect cock that are on display. I swallow hard, and I know he's aware of my staring, aware of what I'm dreaming of doing to that dick when he gives a low, rumbling laugh and shifts his hips again, letting the bat slide from his arms and hit the floor with a crack. He hooks his thumbs just under his slack waistband and freezes his hands in place there as he waits for my eyes to return to his.   
  
"Oops," he grins, bottom lip between his teeth. He stretches, arching his back so that ever so slightly more of him is visible, and I can tell by the way he rolls back on his heels that he's loving my eyes on him.  _I'm_  used to putting on shows for people, but seeing him performing like this makes my head spin. This is a side of Jean I wager few people have ever seen, and that thought only serves to make me hotter,  _harder._  
  
"Better put this away," he says with a practiced shrug, and wiggles fingers down over the deep lines of his hips to pull at the sides of his jockstrap, tugging it up to cover his cock and releasing the straps with a soft snap against his skin, gasping quietly when he does. His hardness is obvious as it strains against the taut fabric of his strap, his pants falling away just a little more as he turns, bending over to pick up his bat. He takes his time putting it away, shifting from one foot to the other as if dancing, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to see me still devouring him with my eyes. I've never seen him so carefree, so lost in what he's doing that he's in no hurry to do  _anything_  else. And then it hits me.   
  
This is for me.   
  
His skin still glows with a faint sheen of sweat, but he's had more than enough time to change, and there's no practical reason for him to even still  _be_  in those pants. But there he is, still toying with the waistband like he can't decide whether or not to let them fall to the floor, and the realization that it's all part of the private show he's giving me sends a tight coil of heat spinning in my belly and surging further down. I can't help a groan escaping, looking him over as he turns to face me again; he doesn't look like he minds too much.   
  
"You gonna take care of that yourself, or d'ya want some help?" He nods toward me, and it's only then that I'm even cognizant of the fact that I'm palming myself through the strained fabric of my jeans. He steps forward to close the gap between us and waits for some kind of answer from me, his open palm smoothing down my side and sliding under the hem of my shirt, hovering there as my brain struggles to process his question. But then I nod, and it's the last coherent thought I have for a while.   
  
His fingers are quick, steady as they pop the button and slide open the zipper on my pants. I barely have time to register the cool air hitting my skin before those fingers find their way through the opening of my boxers, not even pausing to pull them down before he wraps his hand around me and messily tugs. Somewhere in the haze of my mind, I desperately hope he's as sure about everyone being gone as he seems to be; the moans that fall out of me are loud enough for people in the opposing team's locker room to hear.   
  
 _"Ooh,_  better quiet down, Marco. Might still be a few people stragglin' around. Unless of course you  _want_  'em to know who's makin' you feel good."  
  
The sharp edges of his raspy voice are foreign to me, nothing like the way he talks to me when we're usually alone. But it's perfect, and it scratches every itch I've ever had. I let my head fall forward onto his shoulder, biting back a growl of his name as he pulls his hand away just long enough to push the front of my pants and boxers down entirely. He wraps his skilled fingers around the base of my already  _aching_  cock, stroking a few times and laughing under his breath when my hips snap forward of their own accord. Thumb coming up to slide through the mess he's already got me making, he loosens his grip, just enough to let me thrust into his warm hand for a moment while he leans up to tug my earlobe between his teeth.   
  
"So's this what you wanted, Marco? S'this why you came to the game today?"  
  
All I can do in response is nod, groaning as he tightens the circle of his fingers again and stokes me in a quickening rhythm, stepping around behind me without missing a beat. He nips down my neck, bites at my shoulder as he reaches down to hurriedly push away his pants, letting the fabric of his underwear brush over my bare ass for just a moment as he grinds forward against me, before sliding it away too. Then I feel the bounce of his cock against my lower back as it springs free, hot as he presses our bodies together again. His busy hand never abandons its work, alternating rhythmic pumping and steady pressure as he lets me thrust into his grasp, meeting me move for move. Somehow every second is exactly what I want, exactly what I  _need_  and I'm whining into the humid open air of the empty locker room, begging breathlessly for more.    
  
He's more than happy to give it to me, scraping blunt nails up my side and back down the length of my arm before sinking them into the curve of my hip as he rolls against me.   
  
"God, you look good right now. Fallin' apart on me already. Fucking  _gorgeous,_  you know that?"  
  
I feel like I'm going to fall, my legs shaking as I try to focus on keeping them beneath me. But he's there to catch me when I start to wobble, my head rolling back onto his shoulder and his lips ghosting across my cheek, along my jaw and finally pressing gently to the edge of my ear as he rasps my name in rhythm with the pace his wrist is setting on my dick. I don't even know how loud I'm being anymore, but he seems to be enjoying the sounds he's pulling out of me.   
  
"Saw the way you were watchin' me out there today. It was  _me_  you were watching, right?" He asks the question without a trace of uncertainty in his voice, but I nod anyway, just to make sure he knows. "Yeah, thought so. Saw you leanin' forward in your seat. Shiftin' around. What's a'matter? Can't handle watchin'?" The loud smack of his hand slapping against my ass is drowned out by the louder whine it draws from me; I need  _more,_  but he just smoothes his hand over the stinging skin and nudges against my cheek. When my eyes flutter open again he nods over my shoulder, turning us so I can see what he's motioning at. He hums against my skin. "Look."  
  
A mirror.   
  
A full length mirror, in which I can see the way he has me spread out, shaking legs parted so he can reach between them. I can see the way my face has gone red, a tingling blush the creeps all the way down my neck. And I can see the way he's looking at me -  _at us_  - drinking in the sights and sounds like he might die of thirst without them. He's enjoying the hell out of this, maybe almost as much as I am.   
  
It's more than I can handle, and I suck in a sharp breath as I let my eyes fall closed again, willing myself not to come. But his hand returns to the swell of my ass, squeezing hard before smacking again, and he drags his open mouth - hot and messy and perfect - over my shoulder and up my neck.   
  
"I said  _look."_  
  
He slides his open hand down to my thigh and digs his nails into the skin there, pushing his face hard against mine until I have to listen to him. My eyes snap open and I see us, our bodies pressed together in every possible way. I can feel the slickness of his cock as it slides along the cleft of my ass, begging for the same attention he's giving me. I try to reach behind me, but he moves my hand away, and I can only bring it up to fist in his hair for support as he speeds the rhythm of his stroking to a near maddening pace.   
  
"Is this what you were thinking of?" His voice breaks just slightly, and he growls to clear his throat. "Is this what you wanted when you were watching me? Look, Marco. Look at yourself and tell me this is what you wanted.  _Tell me."_  
  
"Yes, _yesyesyes Jean, fuck_  - w-wanted this - god, wanted _you."_  
  
"Louder."  
  
"I f-fucking want you, Jean  _please!"_  
  
I can barely string words together as he groans his approval, licking sloppy stripes around my ear and swearing as he stares in front of us, watching. His murmured praises mix with my brainless pleading to form a buzzing chorus that wipes my mind of everything other than the way he sounds, the way I feel, the way we look. There's no way I could get any higher, but he pushes me to anyway, and with a few more tight strokes I'm gone,  _screaming_  his name as I cover his hand with my come.   
  
"That's it. Gimme all of it, baby."  
  
His breath is hot across my ear, and I tremble at the way the pet name sounds as it slips from his lips. An arm tight around my waist as the other slides lazily along my sensitive length a few more times, he whispers to me - praises pressed to my flushed skin. I breathe him in, the heat of his face next to mine and the way he smells, skin slicked with sweat. It's beautiful. It's flawless. It's...  
  
Not real.   
  
I blink once, twice, and then I'm alone, not braced in Jean's arms, not even dressed. I'm propped on my own trembling arm, and it's my  _own_  hand that's dripping with come as I struggle to reorient myself. The hot water of the shower runs a comforting river over my face, taking with it the sweat and the semen and the shame of the moment when I settle back into reality and try to rationalize getting off to the thought of my roommate. Again.   
  
I let it rinse my thoughts away as best as it can and then turn the knob, scrubbing my face a little harder than strictly necessary with my towel before wrapping it around my hips and heading for the hallway back to our dorm room. I wonder if Jean will be there when I get back, silently thanking whatever natural order there may be in the universe that  _he_  prefers showering in the mornings. When I get back, he's definitely there, tossing me a wave but otherwise not bothering to look up from what he's doing. Maybe it's just as well. It's a little hard to reconcile this Jean with the one from my thoughts. But for a split second when he glances my way as I let my towel fall to slip into a clean pair of boxers, I think I see a familiar expression of desire on his face.   
  
But I'm probably just imagining things. 


End file.
